Chapter 6 - The Boathouse Trap
The air near the lake was thick with the scent of damp earth, decaying pine needles, and the sharp, coppery tang of stagnant water. I kept my footsteps light on the gravel path, the heavy iron box tucked securely under my arm. The old wooden boathouse loomed ahead, its gray, weathered siding blending seamlessly into the gloomy shadows of the overhanging evergreens.
A single black sedan was parked half-concealed behind the thick timber pilings of the structure, its engine completely silent. No lights. No movement.
"Harrison?" I called out softly, my voice barely carrying over the gentle lapping of small waves against the wooden dock.
There was no response. Only the hollow echo of my own voice bouncing off the water.
A cold knot formed in my stomach. I lowered the iron box to the ground, crouching slightly as I drew closer to the side entrance of the boathouse. The wooden door hung slightly ajar, swaying back and forth with a slow, rhythmic creak in the morning breeze.
I pushed the door open with the palm of my hand, stepping into the dim interior.
The beam of my phone flashlight cut through the dust motes dancing in the air. The floor was cluttered with old fishing rods, rusted tackle boxes, and coils of heavy nylon rope. In the center of the room, sitting on an overturned wooden crate, was a small, black external hard drive, resting right beside a leather-bound journal.
I took two steps forward, reaching out my hand toward the drive.
Click.
The sound of a heavy padlock swinging shut behind me echoed like a gunshot through the small space.
I whipped around. Standing in the broken doorway was Dr. Harrison. But he wasn't running, and he didn't look terrified. He stood tall, his wire-rimmed glasses catching the dim light, a smooth, professional calm masking any trace of the panic he had feigned over the phone just twenty minutes ago.
"Dr. Harrison," I breathed, my muscles instantly tightening into a defensive coil. "What is this? You called me. You said Eleanor's team was hunting you."
Harrison let out a quiet, tired sigh, slipping his hands neatly into the pockets of his trench coat. "I am Eleanor's team, Julian. Or at least, I always have been. The medical logs, the psychiatric evaluations, the false diagnoses—they didn't write themselves. Someone had to provide the scientific foundation for the narrative your mother needed to maintain control."
"You betrayed my father," I growled, taking a slow step toward him. "You helped her murder him, and now you're helping her steal my son."
"Your father was a brilliant visionary who lacked the stomach for reality," Harrison replied smoothly, his tone entirely devoid of guilt. "Science requires sacrifices, Julian. The Blackwood Foundation funds global medical breakthroughs that save millions of lives, but breakthroughs require capital, power, and absolute stability. Your father wanted to give it all away to academic ethics boards. Your mother understood that the empire comes first."
"Where is Ethan?" I demanded, the rage in my chest boiling over, overriding the warning bells in my head. I lunged forward, grabbing Harrison by the lapels of his coat and slamming him against the wooden wall. "Tell me where my son is, or I swear I will end you right here."
Harrison didn't flinch. Instead, a chilling, knowing smile touched his lips.
"You're looking in the wrong place, Julian," he whispered calmly. "While you came down here chasing ghosts and hard drives, your mother wasn't waiting for the board meeting. She was boarding a private flight out of the municipal airstrip. And she didn't leave empty-handed."
My grip on his coat loosened instantly. The blood drained from my face. "No..."
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"Yes," Harrison murmured, adjusting his collar as I stepped back in horror. "The board meeting at ten o'clock isn't a vote for a takeover. It’s a funeral for your corporate identity. And by the time you realize what's happening, your son will be across an ocean, bearing a new name, legally adopted by a phantom."
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